“My husband paddled over and hugged me. ‘I love you,’ he said. Suddenly, I was seething. ‘I love you too,’ I said slowly. ‘But you know what? Sometimes I want to smack the sh*t out of you’”
Last year, when my husband took me to St. Lucia for my birthday, he booked a large open-air suite that had been lovingly handcrafted out of 20 different species of rain-forest wood. The first evening, we slipped into our own private infinity plunge pool to watch the sunset over the Pitons. I poured myself a glass of Champagne and thought about how far we’d come since my husband told me, ten months earlier, that he was boarding a plane to London to be with another woman.
Suddenly, I was seething. “I love you too,” I said slowly. “But you know what? Sometimes I want to smack the shit out of you.” “You fucked another woman and lied to me about it,” I said. “I know we’re supposed to be feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries and having mind-blowing makeup sex. But I’m feeling that I just want to punch your sorry face.”
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